


it's the way you are

by willoftitanium



Series: soft tma prompts [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Happy Ending, I don't know what to tag this as, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, allusions to writing poetry but no actual poetry because i cant write it, just martin thinking abt jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:49:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29926104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willoftitanium/pseuds/willoftitanium
Summary: "There's a lot that Martin could write poetry about. There's a lot that Martin likes to write poetry about. But it's not always easy. Some days putting words to paper comes as easily as pulling teeth, and it's as tedious as it is frustrating. Some days are better than others.But it's easy, to write poetry about Jon."prompt #3 - "You are so, so, so pretty."
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: soft tma prompts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2192565
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	it's the way you are

**Author's Note:**

> not much to say about this one, but I hope you enjoy! <3

There's a lot that Martin could write poetry about. There's a lot that Martin  _ likes _ to write poetry about. But it's not always easy. Some days putting words to paper comes as easily as pulling teeth, and it's as tedious as it is frustrating. Some days are better than others.

But it's easy, to write poetry about Jon.

It's the little things. The way he stretches in bed after waking up in the morning. Back arched, arms stretched taught above his head, the little hum he makes in the back of his throat. The way his sleep shirt rides up just enough to expose a thin line of soft skin. The way Squash, the cat, does the same thing after waking up from a nap - without the shirt, at least.

And he has the gall to ask Martin what he's looking at, and always seems surprised when Martin replies with  _ you, Jon _ . It does make him smile though, the wide one that shows off the two perfectly mismatched dimples on his chin. Which Martin didn't even know he had until Scotland, until Jon was  _ warm happy safe  _ enough to smile like that, like a flower blooming under the morning sun.

It's the way Jon's eyebrows knit together when he's thinking, and if you didn't know him better you might think he was angry. Which he is, sometimes. He scowls at emails like they've personally offended him, chews on pens and taps his fingers in his intense focus. But it's not anywhere close to intimidating, not anymore. Martin learned long ago that his prickly exterior doesn't actually hurt, if you know how to handle it.

It's the way he leans into Martin's touch, almost subconsciously. When Martin joins him at the table, or on the couch, he leans over, inch by inch, until his head brushes some part of him. His shoulder, sometimes an arm or a leg. Like the invisible pull of a magnet. Or a flower stretching toward the sun -  _ oh, I already used a flower metaphor, didn't I?  _ Martin almost deletes the line, but instead he moves it into another word document, full of other half written poems and stray thoughts. He might be able to use it later.

It's the way, when Martin is at the kitchen counter, Jon comes from behind and wraps his arms around his chest, pressed against his back. To ask him, voice muffled by Martin's shirt, what he's doing, how his day was - to tell him about the stray cat he spent half an hour trying to console out from underneath a car on his way home from work. Sometimes Martin swings himself around to meet him head on. To cup his face in his hands, or kiss him, or both. And sometimes he stays, content to feel the slight pressure of Jon's arms across his torso as he talks. The sound of his voice reverberates through him like the plucking of a guitar string.

It’s the way Jon always knows when he’s had a bad day. When tension keeps Martin’s shoulders taught long after he comes home from work. Or, when a persistent grey fog clings to him, even on the sunniest days. The way Jon pulls him to the couch, or their bed, sometimes, and wraps every blanket they own around his shoulders. Even the electric one, because Jon doesn’t do anything by halves. He busies himself, making tea with extra honey and bringing Squash over to put on Martin’s lap, as though Martin’s comfort is the most important mission he’s ever had. He gives Martin the tea and curls up beside him, or runs his fingers through Martin’s curls, or holds one of Martin’s frigid hands in both of his. Sometimes he talks, about everything and nothing, and sometimes he doesn’t, a quiet presence to keep Martin grounded. Jon doesn’t expect him to say anything - on the worst days the fog smothers Martin’s voice into mute submission - and for that Martin is grateful.

When it starts to get better Jon makes dinner for the both of them, talking and humming over the clanging of pots and pans to reaffirm his presence even when Martin can’t see him. He won’t ask Martin what he wants, because he knows those kinds of decisions are too much. And it’s alright, because Martin loves everything he makes. And when Martin comes back to himself, overly-warm under the blankets, shaky and on the verge of tears, Jon holds him. What his arms lack in size they make up for in devotion.

It's the way, just last week, Martin caught Jon staring at him. It was a Sunday, and they hadn't done much of anything. It's still a novelty for them, really, to have time to do nothing. Martin is folding laundry, which Jon refuses to touch with a ten foot pole. But Martin knows how Jon likes his shirts folded, so it's ok. He bends to pick up the basket and sees Jon on the couch, chin propped up on the arm rest, gazing at him with an almost unreadable expression.

Martin is almost sure he's spacing out, but cocks his head to the side anyway. His fringe does a sad little flop with the motion, which reminds Martin he still needs to shower. He'd been wearing the same old t-shirt and pajama pants all day, and probably looks a right mess. "Need something, Jon?"

Jon blinks, eyes heavy with the warm solace of a quiet evening. "Oh, no, I just…" He smiles, natural in its movement across his face like the bleeding of ink on paper. "You're just so,  _ so  _ pretty."

He almost drops the basket. Every time Martin thinks he's used to Jon's surprising knack for romanticism, he's proven wrong, again and again. His heart does a little flip in his chest because  _ damn it _ it still gets to him after all this time. His smile, the curve of his cheekbones, the way his hair falls on his shoulder - what choice did Martin have but to love him?

He closes the distance between them and presses a kiss to Jon's forehead. Jon's head tilts up in a perfectly matched response, like two gears designed to move in tandem. Because this is just one of an infinite number of times that Martin will press a kiss there, and one of an infinite number of times that Jon will accept it. 


End file.
